


redamancy

by dvntldr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt Original Percival Graves, M/M, Original Percival Graves & Theseus Scamander Friendship, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Protective Newt Scamander, Workaholic Original Percival Graves, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 12:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18895099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvntldr/pseuds/dvntldr
Summary: redamancy(n.) the act of loving someone who loves you; a love returned in full———His chest burns, but he ignores it, focusing on his work. His fingers tremble as they dip the quill in ink, his posture slack and appearance dishevelled compared to his usual, impeccable outfits—he pretends his team aren’t gossiping about him every time he leaves his office to deliver paperwork to Seraphina. Even the President looks at him oddly, a strange, soft light in her eyes as she takes the stack of papers from him. She’s smart enough not to tell him to take a few days off, though, knowing full well it would just encourage his so-called “bad behavior” even more. Personally, Percival calls it being diligent, but to each their own, he supposes.





	redamancy

Percival is tired.

 

But you didn’t hear that from him.

 

Another wracking cough tears itself from his throat, the director briefly dropping his quill to double over momentarily in his seat, hands moving automatically to his stomach, as if to keep his lunch from being thrown up. He swallows tightly, pulling himself back upright in an effort to keep going. Never in his life has he been so glad that he has an office to himself, compared to the open, shared workspace his team of senior aurors occupy. He’s well aware that they would hate being by themselves in an empty office with only their paperwork as company, but the comfortable silence is reassuring to him, familiar.

 

His chest burns, but he ignores it, focusing on his work. His fingers tremble as they dip the quill in ink, his posture slack and appearance dishevelled compared to his usual, impeccable outfits—he pretends his team aren’t gossiping about him every time he leaves his office to deliver paperwork to Seraphina. Even the President looks at him oddly, a strange, soft light in her eyes as she takes the stack of papers from him. She’s smart enough not to tell him to take a few days off, though, knowing full well it would just encourage his so-called “bad behavior” even more. Personally, Percival calls it being diligent, but to each their own, he supposes.

 

He swims through muddled waters day after day, trying his best to be as sharp and alert as he usually is, but he can’t keep his head above the water any longer. He starts drowning when he stumbles on his way back to his office, momentarily grabbing Fontaine’s desk for support to right himself. Almost immediately, Fontaine is up and ready to assist him, the auror’s hands hovering over Percival uncertainly, as if debating between touching him or backing off. “Sir, are you—“

 

“Get back to your work,” he snarls, or tries to, the words coming out significantly weaker than he’d wanted them to be. “I’m fine. Just a dizzy spell.”

 

“Since when have you ever had dizzy spells, Sir?” O’Brien called, an undercurrent of concern in his tone. The director straightens up, wipes his hands on his suit and tries to disregard how badly his hands are shaking.

 

“It’s none of your business. Now, I want all of you focusing on your reports. They better be on my desk by the end of the day, or you’re getting overtime shifts.” He barely makes it back to his office in time—collapsing on the floor, he curls up next to the couch, holding his aching head as he lets out a pained moan. Maybe he can just take a break. Just for a while. Surely that would be fine?

 

 _Get up, Percival. Don’t slack off. Pull your weight, already; don’t be more useless than you already are._ A soft, wordless whine of pain flits out of his mouth, the pressing migraine bullying him into submission. He wants so desperately to prove himself to the people around him, to prove that Grindelwald hadn’t ruined him, but Percival _has_ always been terrible at fooling himself. The mirror lining his shelf reflects him back at himself; his suit is rumpled, hair tousled and unkempt, dark eye-circles prominent on his gaunt face—it’s hard to look at himself and not want to bash his head into his desk. Newt’s face swims into view, his husband’s worried face one Percival is well-acquainted with. Newt would fret over him if he knew what was happening. Newt _cares_ about him. Newt would want him to get better. Right?

 

 _Hah! You think he cares about you? He could do so much better than you. Nobody cares about you, so don’t kid yourself._ The voice scoffs. _Nobody even noticed that you were replaced by a literal mass murderer. What does that say about you, I wonder?_

 

The voice doesn’t need to tell him. Percival knows, knows the things people say about him when his back is turned. Knows they consider him a traitor, suspect him to be a spy. Knows that Seraphina, one of his closest friends, had him investigated when he’d first gotten out of Grindelwald’s clutches. The knowledge doesn’t make it hurt less, though.

 

He steels himself, seats himself at his desk as sweat trickles down his spine. He pulls the next report towards him, but before picking up his quill, he makes eye-contact with the mirror and watches it explode with a savage pleasure. The shards go everywhere—Percival stares at the splinter-thin shard embedded in his palm with resigned fascination, curling his hand into a fist and pressing it deeper.

 

He almost wishes Grindelwald would have been merciful enough to off him, so at least he could have died a hero. Better that than to live and be regarded as the villain.

 

It’s just another day.

 

—

 

Someone knocks at his door—he knows it’s Goldstein. She knocks once, then hovers indecisively for a few moments before knocking rapidly twice, as compared to Fontaine’s rapping his fist against the door and Weiss’s drawl of “Sir! Got some stuff for you!”-. He’s fleetingly proud of his retained ability to tell his aurors apart just by their knocks, but then the voice chastises him and he falls silent, calling out for the female to enter softly. She does so, eyes a little bit wide at the sight of all the glass on the floor, but wisely doesn’t ask any questions and deposits her neat stack of paperwork onto his desk.

 

Inside, he despairs at the sight of more work, but merely quirks an eyebrow as she begins to speak. “Sir, the rest of us are going out for lunch. Do you want to come? Don’t worry, Grimsditch isn’t coming. Or—would you rather one of us bought something back for you?” She tries to joke, referring to Percival’s lingering annoyance for the man who seemed incapable of writing a proper report. He doesn’t acknowledge her pathetic attempt of getting him out of the office, however, simply dismissing her. She dawdles at the door, uneasy gaze darting from the mess on the floor to him and then back again. “Uhm...would you like for me to help you to fix your mirror? A quick Reparo should do it, I don’t mind…”

 

She raises her wand and memories flood him instantly— _he’s crouched in front of Percival, striking blue eyes amused at his attempts to get free; he raises his wand slowly, points it between Percival’s eyes and savours each syllable slowly-“Crucio”—_ wandless magic explodes out of him and her wand sails into his hand, Percival having accidentally slammed his chair back against the wall when he’d stood up.

 

He’s panting hard, like he’s just won a marathon; Goldstein is visibly shocked, her hands raised in silent surrender. The other aurors are crowding into the room now, and Percival feels his breath catch in his throat—there are too many people here, he’s outnumbered he’s not _safe_ —

 

“Get _out!...”_ He growls, the last word somehow both demanding and yet, impossibly pleading as he tosses her wand back to her, his other hand clutching his wand so tight he’s mildly afraid he’ll break it in half. Fischer and Lopez exchange glances before ushering the rest out; only Goldstein remains, giving him an unreadable look before disappearing around the corner, the door clicking shut gently behind her.

 

 _How stupid are you, to give up the game like that? Overreacting in front of your aurors like a child? If you’re not careful, Seraphina will strip you of your position and then you’ll_ **_really_ ** _be nothing, no one._

“What _game_?” He sounds so exhausted, even to his own ears.

 

 _Why, the game of you ruining yourself, of course!_ The voice sounds so cheery. _Don’t you see? You’re a wand movement away from having a mental breakdown. And if it happens in public—well, you really will be stripped of your title. After that, it’s just a matter of time and how you choose to do it, no?_

 

“That’s not going to happen.” He says quietly as the voice chuckles, too cold, too dark to be his own. _It already has._

 

Percival doesn’t go home that night.

 

=#=

 

The funny thing is, Newt knows exactly what’s happening. His husband has never been so distant, at least not towards him. The other man comes home, greets him with none of the tender compassion he saves specifically for Newt alone. They eat dinner together, when Percy isn’t working through the night, which is more often than not—he smiles at Percival and Percival smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Percy insists on sleeping in the guest room, on locking the door so Newt can’t come in to soothe his husband on the rare days he’s so tired he forgets to cast a soundproofing spell and ends up screaming his throat raw from nightmares that torment him endlessly.

 

The creatures miss their Daddy—Dougal takes to wandering around the house in mournful search for the man. More than once, one of the baby occamys Newt dubbed Jaz has shrunk down to fit underneath the doorframe, but next thing Newt knows, the door opens to reveal a tear-streaked Percival clutching said missing occamy, thrusting the creature into his arms, mumbling some excuses and slamming the door shut, the echoing sounds of his lover puking almost immediately afterwards almost too much for Newt to bear. Even Angie rakes her claws on the door with her ears tucked back and tail between her legs in a plea for Percy to open it, but it’s reinforced with a warding spell even _Newt_ doesn’t know—it’s a common sight nowadays to see the nundu curled up outside the door, melancholy yowls reverberating throughout the house as she waits for her Daddy to appear for feeding time. All his creatures are less vocal, less social, and it’s driving Newt absolutely mad to see them suffer almost as much as he’s suffering.

 

He wants so badly to help the person he loves most, but Percy seems insistent on self-destructing. His husband never eats anymore; he’s tended to Percy’s wounds after missions and seen how skinny his lover has become, ribs jutting out, Newt able to feel the other male’s bones right under his skin. The nightmares get worse and worse; Arion causes a flood in his case the first time the kelpie hears Percival’s bone-chilling screams when Newt had accidentally left the suitcase open. Percy comes home, feverish from working himself down to the bone, eyes glazed over with fatigue, but still refuses to relax, shutting himself up in his room and refusing to talk to Newt.

 

Newt is at a loss. He doesn’t see what he can do. He’s confided in Tina plenty of times, the female auror telling him about Percy’s behavior at work, how his husband is constantly on tenterhooks, constantly hyperalert, not even leaving to get food, how he had got hit by shrapnel from a Bombarda Maxima and kept chasing the criminal, as if he had a death wish. Newt remembers that day, the memory of Percy staggering through the door and flinching away from Newt’s touch when the magizoologist had tried to heal him with a spell clear. Worse of all, Percy’s soft, loving smile illuminates Newt’s mind like a beacon, a whirlwind of memories flashing across his thoughts too fast to catch; Percy dipping Newt gracefully and bringing him up for a kiss, Percy running his hands through Newt’s hair as he listens to Newt talk animatedly about the new Bicorn he’d rescued, Percy pressing him up against the shower wall and kissing him with the passion of a starving man, Percy’s humor, Percy’s eyes, Percy’s laugh—his first waking thought is of their first _I-love-you._

 

Why can’t his husband see that Newt loves him above all else? He’d give up his job as a magizoologist to be with Percival, the job he’d sacrificed friendships for and worked so hard for, and he loves Percy even _more_ just because he knows Percy would never make Newt choose between the two.

 

His husband is drowning and there’s nothing Newt can do and it’s the worst feeling he has ever experienced.

 

—

 

“Newt! Thank Morgana!” Fontaine hurries towards him, Newt’s surprised smile melting away at the auror’s words. “Boss is bad shape—he hasn’t eaten and he isn’t moving, he’s not unconscious though, we tried Rennervate…”

 

Newt doesn’t listen to the rest of Fontaine’s sentence, instead Apparating to just outside Percival’s office. “Percy? It’s Newt. I—I’m coming in.”

 

He enters when he hears a choked noise from his husband, almost immediately rushing to the desk to examine Percival. His lover is gripping his head, a pained groan slipping out through gritted teeth. “Reparifors—not a magically-induced symptom. It’s, ah, this is complicated. Episkey? No, not that one either. I, you’re not…memoriam revocandum? Percy? Percy, please talk to me?”

 

His childhood stutter is coming out, Newt’s mouth opening and closing as he tries to figure out what to say. He’s impossibly anxious—he can see that Percival is still breathing, but for some reason his lover refuses to speak to him. He can tell that Percy has a headache, possibly a migraine—what spell will help, what can he do to help, he doesn’t know-!

 

“C-“ He starts before clearing his throat and trying again, forcing himself to make sure his voice doesn’t shake. “Capitis dolore remedium. Please, Percy, I don’t, I’m not sure...did it help? If, if it did, could you— _say something_ —“ Perhaps reacting to his distress, his case bursts open, the lock snapping; a few people behind him let out shocked, apprehensive gasps, Newt spinning around to look at them. It’s a few of the senior aurors, Fontaine and of course Tina standing in front, the latter clearly concerned from how she’s standing, ready to rush forwards and defend Newt. It’s a nice, but unneeded, sentiment.

 

Angie lopes out of the case and lets out a delighted purr at the sight of her Daddy; the aurors start forward to incapacitate the nundu that looks like it’s about to viciously maul Graves, but Tina holds them back. Jaz is curled around Angie’s neck, the occamy slithering up Percival’s arm; perhaps she can tell that Percival isn’t quite himself, since instead of her settling in her favourite position around Percy’s neck, she settles for wrapping around his arm like a bracelet. Arion whinnies deep inside the case, unable to escape like his brothers and sisters—Newt winces at the amount of clean-up he’ll have to do later—as Dioscuri stands by Percival’s side in a threatening pose and Angie purrs and butts her head against Percival’s other arm. All in all, they make an odd family, but it’s _their_ family.

 

Percy seems to come back to himself, the director blinking and eyeing the creatures confusedly. Blocking their audience with his body (Newt will have a talk with them later about respecting people’s privacy, with Angie next to him as persuasion), he reaches out to take Percival’s hand, making his movements slow so as to not startle the auror. “Percy? Percy, it’s me—are you okay? Is your headache better? I, uhm. Tried to help?”

 

Before he can ramble on any longer, Percival smiles at him and it’s like the world is finally in color instead of the black-and-white, grayscale daymare Newt has been in for weeks. “Artemis.”

 

Relief hits him and he pulls Percy in by his lapels to kiss him, uncaring of the aurors that have started to shuffle away now that they’ve seen the situation is under control. “I told you, it’s Newt.” He scolds lightly, heart fluttering at the feeling of his husband’s familiar chapped lips on his. It’s been far too long since he’s been able to touch Percy like this, but he forces that side of him down, wanting to concentrate on making sure Percival is okay. “Don’t do this again, I was _so_ worried, I love you so much…”

 

Percy’s eyes darken as he pulls back and looks away, fidgeting with Jaz for a few moments; he’s absent-mindedly tickling the occamy, Jaz letting out a high-pitched whistling noise. “I...I’m sorry for worrying you. You can go now.” He looks impossibly reluctant to part with the creatures, but at the same time, his slumped posture speaks volumes of how defeated, how resigned he feels. _Watch. Watch him leave you. Watch him walk away._

 

“ _What_ ?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “I’m not—Percy, I’m not going to _leave_ , just like that. Is this what this is about? Is it about _him?_ ”

 

Percival nods, not trusting himself to speak; Newt can feel himself soften, the Brit taking both of Percy’s hands now, ignoring the shattered glass on the floor and the shattered glass in his husband’s eyes. “I told you, I’m never going to leave you. Give you your space, sure, but not _leave_ . Never _leave_. You don’t have to scared that I’ll leave you. Grindelwald was a liar. What—what did he. What did he say to you?”

 

It takes over half an hour, but Percival finally manages to spill all the burdens and anxieties he’d been bearing until now—all the pretty lies Grindelwald had spouted, that _did you know your husband kissed me hello this morning_ and _he thinks I’m you, I could break him, I could use him until he hates you, until he_ **_fears_ ** _you_ and _maybe I’ll kidnap him here and fuck him right in front of you, his freckles really are adorable_ , all the insecurities that Newt wouldn’t want someone who was weak enough to be captured, all the suicidal thoughts and the voices in his head begging him to off himself—he’s crying by the end of it and he thinks Newt is too, hiccuping sobs wracking his whole frame; Newt tugs him into a hug and he freezes at how skinny he is, how _ugly_ he’s become, but Newt only murmurs that he’s beautiful and pulls him closer.

 

The voice is finally silent.

 

“It’s gonna get better, okay?” Newt pulls back to look him in the eye, his fiery-red, tousled hair like a halo, his freckles dancing across his high cheekbones like constellations, determined and gorgeous and every bit the man Percival had fallen in love with. “We’ll go see a therapist, together if you want—it’s not going to get better immediately, but we’ll get better together, I promise you that, I promise, I love you.”

 

Percival doesn’t doubt him for a second.

 

(Newt is right. It doesn’t get better, not for weeks, not even for months. He still wakes up screaming, still hears spiteful voices that tell him to kill himself, still overworks himself until he’s dizzy and can hardly see straight. The difference is that now when he wakes up, Newt is there to offer a glass of honey-lemon and a listening ear. When he hears the voices, Newt sits by him and babbles on and on about the latest antics Dioscuri has got up to or that _Angie’s being picky with her fish, could you convince her to eat?_ -. When he overworks himself, Newt is in his office with homecooked meals, the magizoologist clearing his reports off the desk and letting Dougal sleep on it instead as they laugh and share their food.

 

Percival’s therapist is a kindly old lady who treats him to lemon biscuits and coffee, who lets it slide whenever he doesn’t want to talk about a topic, but isn’t afraid to call bullshit whenever he avoids something. His aurors smile in relief when they see Percival in the dueling ring, dominating every opponent he comes up against and having a friendly duel with Theseus for Newt’s hand, the latter blushing as he watches his brother and husband literally fight over him. Queenie beams at Percival when she senses that the dark fog that had enveloped his mind is now gone, replaced by a ray of golden sunlight cutting in through the clouds.

 

He isn’t close to being better. But he’s getting there.

 

Newt kisses him as they sit in his case, watching Arion perform tricks to impress his Mummy and Daddy, and Percival finally feels happy.)

**Author's Note:**

> formerly titled ‘big dumbass energy’  
> wrote this while listening to idfc ~blackbear


End file.
